


Two People, At Least One Orgasm

by nigeltde



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, PWP-ish, consensual unwanted sex, fuck or someone else dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:20:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22317730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nigeltde/pseuds/nigeltde
Summary: Under the ham balls and tears.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 54
Kudos: 153





	Two People, At Least One Orgasm

**Author's Note:**

> Amusing myself with the opposite of the last thing. Infinite thanks to [doilycoffin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doilycoffin/) for the beta.

“What does that mean, fulfillment,” Dean says, frowning. Sets his basket perilously aside and wipes his hands on his jeans, reaches forward, grabs the girl’s diary off the table and flips it open. 

“It means, I think,” Sam says, rifling through his little black compendium; stops and compares a page with the diagram he traced. “Yeah. Sex.” 

Dean’s eyebrows climb into the roof. “Sex?”

“Yeah.” Sam shuts the book and leans back, kicks out at Dean’s knee and misses. “Hey, take your food off my bed before I end up sleeping in chicken grease.”

“Who?”

“What?”

Dean cuts him a look. “Don’t give me a routine. Why did those four guys get hit? Who’s gotta get down?”

Sam picks his salad back up and forks a mouthful, considering. “Anyone, I think. The only link between the dead guys is that they all lived here, and her boyfriend’s still alive. She wanted sex, the spell wants sex. The fact that she crashed on her way to the date is just making it…flail.”

“When? Sunset again?”

“That's what it's been so far.” Sam nods at the papers on the table. Obituaries, photocopies, photos. The crash site, burned out. The stricken heart-attack faces of the men whose deaths hooked them in. Unease unfurls in the pit of his stomach. He swipes at his phone and googles _sunset Iowa_. “Eight seventeen pm. I don't know, Dean. I think we're in trouble. Her wake is tonight.”

“I’m not gonna be beaten by Miss Lonely Hearts with a dead raccoon and a couple of crystals.” Dean stands and tosses the diary on the bed, stalks to the window where he bends the blinds to peer at the sky, checks his watch. “Hour and a half, just over. Plenty of time. So, what’s the catch? You sing Purple Rain while you’re doing it?”

“Purple _Rain_?” Sam blinks at him. “Why Purple Rain?”

“It’s been stuck in my head since Minnetonka.” He holds up a hand, fingers spread in a V. “Two days, Sam.”

“I know,” Sam says, bewildered. “I was there. What does it have to do with--”

“I’m saying, there’s people rubbing uglies all the time, but the spell’s still going. What’s the catch, what’s the problem? Besides sunset?”

Sam shakes his head to clear it, presses a thumb to his temple and closes his eyes. Focus. He’s not gonna get a headache. Second day they've been here and yeah maybe they made enemies of half the town with a miscalculated FBI bluff and maybe it took too long to link the crash to the heart attacks but they came on this by accident; he arrived with almost nothing and he’s already figured out this much. They've got time.

When he opens his eyes he’s still in a bile-yellow motel room with the glories of northeast Iowa adorning the walls and curtains. Dean is waiting, expectant. Sam hates being a disappointment.

“The problem,” he says, dread building, “is where it’s buried.” 

“Ah.” Dean rocks back on his heels, winces. “I see.”

“Yeah.”

“A fresh grave, too. Well, it’s out there, but you’d be surprised how game some of these tall corn ladies are after a Mai Tai or three. I might be able to swing it. Didn’t we pass a bar coming out of Postville?”

No. “I don’t think a Mai Tai will cut it. It’s not where _she’s_ buried, it’s where she buried the _spell_.” 

Dean frowns at him. “You said it was under her bed. Under the _house_?” He fishes through the scatter on the table and comes up with a ribbon of newspaper, scans it quickly. Lifts his eyes to Sam. “Son of a bitch.”

“I know.”

“The _wake_ is tonight.”

“I _know._ ”

“I mean, I’ll take one for the team, but--”

Sam shrugs, helpless. “What if we paid someone?”

“To fuck a stranger in a crawl space under the ham balls and tears? What do I look like, a Rockerfeller? Can’t you just...hook up some...” Dean waves his hand vaguely around. “Sex magic?”

Sam stares at him, flat. “Are you asking me to roofie someone?”

“I didn’t mean _roofie_ ,” Dean says. It’s unconvincing. “So what, some poor bastard is gonna die in an hour because virgins can’t drive?”

“Fuck,” Sam mutters. Clicks the lid back on his salad and tips it into the trash, appetite gone. “What if we just crashed the wake? You could rustle up a date, right?”

“Hi.” Dean waves at him. “Remember us, the guys you pulled a gun on this morning and told to get out of your house? I brought a hooker. Do you mind if we hang out in your daughter’s bedroom a while?”

“You don’t have to say it like that.”

“There’s no _version_ ,” Dean says, and pauses. “Wait, define sex.”

Sam scratches through his hair, breathes in, turning it over. “What can we get away with, you mean?”

“Yeah, like – I could go in solo. Under the house.”

Sam shakes his head. “Two people, at least one orgasm. Gotta be.”

Dean squints up at the ceiling, draws his lip through his teeth. “Penetrative?”

Sam is silent a second. Stares at him. 

A muscle ticks in Dean’s jaw. 

“Um,” Sam says. Frowns at her notebook; pages through to the sketches of her hex bags, the burial box. “It’s not a fertility deal. There’s nothing explicit. I think a broader definition might work.”

“No holy vagina magic?”

“Not as such,” Sam says, slow. 

“Hmmmmm,” Dean says. 

“Could be two guys,” Sam says, faint.

Dean drums his fingers on his leg. Sighs. “I’m gonna say something. You’re not gonna like it.”

Sam cringes. “Don’t say it.”

“You got any better ideas?”

Sam stares at the mess on the table and waits for a solution to present itself. The dead guys stare back at him. Dean gives them all a minute before snorting, checking his watch.

“Thought so. I gotta go out. I’ll be back.”

“What the fuck,” Sam says, dazed, mostly to himself. Puts his knuckles on the table and pushes up. His knees aren’t locking right. His hands feel five sizes too big. He regrets eating; tonight, and ever. “No. Drop me at the house, I’ll stake it out.”

“If you want.” Dean grabs his jacket off the hook by the window and fumbles around in the pocket for his keys. Standing there, he goes offline a moment: quiet, unfocused. His mouth turns down. A broken slice of sunlight cuts his face, makes his nose more crooked. He needs to shave. There’s fried chicken grease on his shirt, where a chunk of thigh had slipped off the bone.

If everything goes right in the next hour Sam’s gonna have to touch his dick.

His fingers curl up into a wincing fist, squeamish, involuntary.

“Hey,” he says, hesitant. Dean blinks and looks up, snapping back. “If you come up with _anything_.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll let you know,” Dean says, eyes wide, emphatic. Pauses again. “Sam, listen…”

Sam swallows. “What?”

“I, ah. Never meant to cause you any sorrow.” He grins. Hideous, but Sam appreciates the effort.

“Good to know,” he says; a croak more than anything. “And if you get that song stuck in my head you won’t be coming out from under that house alive.”

“Jesus,” Dean says, opening the door and letting the evening in. “Don’t tempt me.”

::

Annie Bottrell’s house, her family’s, and bigger than any life she got to lead. Set back from the road. Oaks, white board, a deep porch. No fences, the whole street made up of polite green distance. A fleet of red trucks and little silver hatchbacks packs the driveway, yard, and street.

The house is about two and a half feet off the ground at the highest point. Open space covered by lattice covered by flower beds. Sam, loitering baldly in the shadow of a tree across the road and down, squints through the red-gold light. Flaking paint. Maybe weak enough to lever through.

At least it’s summer. It’s gotta be good that it’s summer. Nothing worse than crawling around under a house when it’s all moist and ripe-smelling.

A familiar engine rumbles into hearing. 

Some things worse, maybe.

The car growls past and pulls in, before the corner. Sam follows, trying not to look like a criminal. He checks his watch, and the sun, getting low, colours deepening at the horizon. 

There’s a duffle on the seat next to Dean.

“Bad news,” he says, grim, as Sam closes the door. Sam eyes him, alarmed. 

“How could it get worse?”

“I left my pills at home. You know.” His finger extends a rising erection through the air.

Sam thins his lips. “Good. A five hour hard-on might have screwed with our timing.”

“Limpdick’s gonna screw with it too, Sam, Christ. We’re not exactly kids anymore. Think.”

Sam shakes his head, unzips the duffle. Drugstore bag that he stridently ignores. Two…three bottles of Jack, clinking against a prybar. Usual assortment of handguns. A hand shovel. Rope. Two aerosol cans.

Sam picks them out. Bug spray, the one. 

“Snake spray?” he says, incredulous. “Is this Mexican?”

“100% garantía,” Dean says, satisfied.

Sam turns the can over. At the bottom, in a bright yellow box bordered by skulls: clove oil and arsenic. “This can’t be legal, are you insane?”

“You want to get bitten by a snake on top of everything else?” 

“If I have to do this I don’t want to die of arsenic poisoning while I’m doing it, Dean!” he hisses. Dean snatches it out of his hand and dumps it in the bag. Glares at him. 

“Don’t see you bringing anything to the table.” 

Sam sighs. “Just. Give me the alcohol. Please.”

Dean cracks a bottle and hands it over. Sam gulps, sets his jaw against the bite. Dean, upending his own bottle down his throat, turns the rearview to get a better view at the house. Sam cranes his neck. A woman and her kid, just arrived on the porch, hang back and wait for a family to trek up the sidewalk. The little boy grabs a fistful of her dress and tucks his chin into his collar, tries to pretend he doesn’t exist. 

Sam knows how he feels.

“Every Bottrell in the lower forty-nine on their way,” Dean mutters. “Okay, what’s the plan?”

Sam points. "Her bedroom is in the back corner, and the people in the house next door went over about ten minutes ago. I think we can circle around and come in that way. And just hope they’re all at the front.” 

“Fine. And the exit strategy?”

Sam shrugs. “Same, in reverse?”

Dean stares at him, unimpressed. Ducks his head to scan the street, look past at the house. The family’s hit the porch. Handshakes and kisses. A few sorrowful clasps on the shoulder. Someone dings the bell.

The light’s losing colour, filtered through the oaks. Sam checks his watch again. “Last chance to come up with something better.”

Dean taps his bottle against the wheel. “What would happen if...”

“Some guy will die,” Sam says, quiet. “And then we have the same problem tomorrow.”

Dean takes another long pull of Jack. Swallows, licks his lips, dumps his bottle into the bag, slides the prybar up his sleeve. “Well. Sooner we get it done, sooner we can start drinking for real.”

They creak the doors open. Dean slings the bag over his shoulder and pats the hood in passing, murmurs _don’t judge me_.

“Why stop now,” Sam says, lets Dean sock him in the arm. They cross the road, blisteringly exposed, strolling casual past the next house, and duck down the side. It’s still light. It’s still _light_! Sam can’t get over it. All the creeping around they do, at least it’s usually in the dark. He’s too tall to duck and dash effectively and he feels like a pervert, lurking behind a wide old oak at the corner of the Bottrell property, Dean by his side. Black unshuttered windows of the house staring out at them. 

It’s mortifying. A disaster, water sucking out from under his feet and the cataclysm coming. 

He looks at his brother.

“I need another drink,” he says.

“Focus,” Dean says, short, and scurries across the lawn, kneels in the agapanthus, fits the prybar under the lattice and levers it off. Tosses the bag under the house and crawls after it, legs disappearing into the gloom. 

Sam hesitates, waiting for shouts, alarm: delaying. He knows it, can’t help it. It’s stupid. Open space behind and in front of him. Anyone could walk past. Anyone could be looking out the back of that house--

Voices freeze him, shrink him into the tree; two women, leaving the Bottrell house and sauntering over to a car, parked on the road; the one closest opens the back door and then they stand there talking over the roof. 

He curses under his breath. 

His phone buzzes.

_Get the fuck in here  
b4 a snake murders me_

_People_ , Sam taps back. Sneaks a look around the tree. The woman leans into the backseat and pulls out a laundry basket, balances it on her hip. It’s empty. Sam curls his lip. What’s the goddamn rush to bring an empty laundry basket to a wake?

_I think we established this is a two person problem_

_There are PEOPLE_

_coward_

Sam shoves his phone into his pocket, lets it buzz against his leg. Rolls his eyes and waits an eternity for the women to saunter back to the house. Wings a prayer to the sky, and makes his move.

It’s dim under the house, just as dusty and uneven as he’d feared and drifting with dry crumpling leaves and suspicious dirt and cobwebs. Cramped; severely cramped. He has to stay on his belly and combat crawl, dodging plumbing and squat brick foundations, rafters a foot above his head.

He sneezes.

“Shhhhh.” A light flashes in his eyes and blinds him. “Get over here.” 

“Turn that off, people will see. It’s getting dark.”

“Then we’re running out of time, hustle.”

Sam hitches his way over to the corner. Dean’s perched awkwardly on his elbow, maglite in his mouth, rifling through his bag. Hands a bottle to Sam as he arrives. 

Sam grabs it, a lifeline. Collapses onto his back and then has to figure out how to drink lying down. Chokes on his first swig, too big. The next goes down easier, and the next. 

“We gotta get out of here, remember,” Dean warns, but there’s a lot of clear glass showing on his own bottle. Sam’s not taking him too seriously.

He sneezes again. Wipes his nose on his shirt. Smells dust. Dirt hard-packed under his skull, something poking into his spine. He feels disgusting. 

“How is this happening?” he asks, up at the house, the sky, the grand cosmic joke of his life.

“Because you told me it had to,” Dean says. “Is this the right spot?” 

“Yeah. I remember the view out of her bedroom window.”

Dean turns the flashlight off, shuffles around, messes with the bag, settles finally an arm’s length away. Silence. In the house they’re playing music, muffled, bassy. Boards creak, distant from them, raising the hair on the back of his neck. They’re not alone.

Dean shifts, drinks, in the gloom. “What if we just dug the spell up, now we’re here? Burned it?”

“I don’t know.” He washes a swallow of Jack through his mouth and feels it start to come on, woozy, swimming his veins. “It’s killing people, now she’s dead. It’s death magic. Burning without satisfying it; could work, could turn into a curse, could explode. I just don’t know.” He cranes his head back to look outside, the squares of dimming light beyond the lattice, red almost seeped away.

Dean sighs. “Fine. You got your material ready?”

“Material?”

“Material.” Dean holds up his phone. Pornhub app open. There are so many dicks. Sam closes his eyes.

“I think I’ll make do.”

“You never think ahead,” Dean snips, peevish. “You’re never prepared.”

“Just because I don’t have a crippling dependence on pornography--”

“You visualise the scene, you run the ways it can go wrong--”

“Excuse me for trying not to think about fucking my brother!” Sam hisses. That shuts him up. 

“Just to be clear,” Dean whispers, after a moment, and rolls on his side. “There will be no fucking. Undo your belt.”

Sam’s whole body slams itself flat into the dirt. Flatter. “What are you gonna do?”

Dean pauses, hand hovering in the air. “Are we on the same page?”

“I don’t know, what page are you on?”

“It’s gotta be – a two-way street, right?” 

Sam stares at his hand. Swallows. “I figured we’d – go one-way, at the same time, until the end.”

Dean’s face darkens. “Right.”

“I, I just – I don’t think I could get there, otherwise,” Sam says, wincing in apology. Dean nods, rapid.

“Me either. That was my idea too.”

“Okay,” Sam says. “Good.”

“Good.” Dean rolls away, takes another drink.

“Good.” No answer. “Well, I’m gonna start now.”

“Okay. You want some lube?”

Sam opens his mouth to say no. Considers the rafters above him, the dirt underneath. Profoundly discouraging.

“Yeah,” he says, defeated, and a foil lands on his chest. He plucks it out of his shirt, squishes it between his fingers. Sighs, puts it between his lips, and gets started on his belt. Tries to ignore the movement to his right, tries to muffle the sound of his fly. Grabs himself through his boxers, the comforting shape of his dick. A protective hold more than anything. _Sorry_ , he thinks, down to it. It's definitely not happy with him. Doesn’t even twitch. 

Sam closes his eyes and breathes deep through his nose. Must and earth and a voice hits his ears, tinny. Japanese. Quietens as Dean bumps down the sound, but in the end he can still hear it: the firm, masculine narration, a whimpering girl’s voice. Sam’s stomach curdles. 

He should have brought earplugs, muffs, headphones. Maybe Dean had a point about preparation.

Dean lets out a held breath and there’s the sound of clothes shifting and Sam deafens himself as much by will as he can, eyes squeezed tight and he shifts his hand over his dick and searches his black desperate void of an imagination for anything, anything, tits, licking tits, feeling a nipple draw up under his tongue and her chest rise, dirt worming its way under his collar; he hopes it’s dirt, or a root, something that’s not gonna bite, leave him with a sore in his neck that will swell and suppurate and he’ll probably get necrosis. Aren’t there – ancient bacteria or something under these houses, aren’t there incurable flesh-eating diseases that lurk in places like this?

Insistent squelching sounds out of Dean’s phone and little high porn-cries and the man who never shuts up. Sam can’t get over the feeling that this is some kind of joke, that the house will lever open and expose them, two grown blood-related men lying side by side in the dirt with their hands in their pants, one mortified out of his skin and the other lit up by the soft pink glow of hentai.

Nothing for it. Sam fixes on the uh-uh-uh helpless girl sounds and puts his hand under his boxers and pictures her, one of those freaky disproportionate anime girls with their eyes wide and glazed and the sweat and the drool, always so tiny, it’s weird that Dean is so into tiny virgins in porn when he always picks up those capable been-around women. Not so weird, maybe, taste is taste, his own is – there was one thing he saw, as a kid, hot formative guilt he’s never been able to escape, a series of stills in the early days of dial-up, a blonde crushed down into a bed with her red mouth blurred open and the dark slashes of her mascara and too small for the guys she was taking, but in one picture her face was bliss, the most blissful thing Sam’s ever seen, to be stretched open and full. He puts that in his head, and it works: dry and slow-going but he’s getting hard and for a while everything takes care of itself, the booze kicked in, pure friction, thinking of that blissful woman and all his reliables, a woman’s thighs splayed and the sinking pink taste of her and the juddering clench around his fingers--

“How’s it going?” Dean whispers, and his balls shoot up into his body and he freezes, eyes flying open. It’s darker. They’re running out of time, and he’s losing it, softening, strips himself faster to compensate. Fumbles up a hand for the lube, rips it with his teeth, bright chemical strawberry smell in the air, makes a mess trying to get some on his palm and lifts his knees a fraction, digs his heels in the dirt. 

“What’s wrong?” Dean says, and Sam spits the packet away.

“Shut up.” Slick now, moving faster and wishing Dean was still watching his porn just to hide some of the sound but it’s stopped and there’s only that mundane embarrassing fap noise, the both of them, on and on, his skin crawling at the weirdness, trying to work the head but it’s oversensitive, refuses to melt into that good feeling. He swears.

Dean shifts. “You want to watch my phone?”

“Shh.”

“Hurry up.”

“Believe it or not you talking isn’t helping this go faster,” Sam hisses, and Dean huffs, amused, shuffles over, too soon, the firm hot line of his body too soon and his dick waving around down there somewhere that Sam is expected to touch even though it’s been fifteen years or more since Sam’s touched someone else’s dick and that then was spring break and he was blackout gone and this now is a Tuesday and he is not, nearly enough, drunk, lying there rigid and waiting, waiting in the thick gloom.

“Hey,” Dean whispers, near his ear, “remember the time I got stuck behind the wall of that shack looking for bones and you had to bash a hole in the floorboards and pull me out by my ankles,” and a picture of Dean’s infamous, furious face rises in Sam’s mind, entirely grey from dust and dead things and his shirt ridden up under his armpits and Sam laughs, startled, remembering, gasps _what_ and Dean grabs his dick and takes over jerking and Sam’s body folds involuntarily up and he cracks his head on a rafter and collapses back down, blasted, slaps his hand to his forehead all rotten and gross with lube and now dirt in the lube and still reeking of strawberries but sour now. It drips. It’s in his eyelashes. 

“We don’t have time for you to pass out,” Dean says, and Sam moans, eyes squeezed shut and his brain like it’s being pincered. “Relax.”

“Dean I don’t know--” 

“Relax, Sam, stop fighting it.” He lets Sam go, rolls back; regular flex of his arm alongside Sam breathes, breathes, strangles down a cough, his head spiking and subsiding and breathes and jerks himself hard again, mind empty, reaching up to wipe lube out of his eyebrow, floorboards creaking and his brother whacking off, and it strikes him: it’s so dumb. He laughs, it’s so _dumb_ , it’s so absurd, that he’s here, that he’s alive, that he’s reduced to doing this.

“Pur-ple rain,” he sings, under his breath, and that makes Dean snicker, and Sam's rhythm lurches around a corner and he starts feeling it, warm pooling tension and the sparks up his spine, hard for real and growing urgent, every stroke good and right and he thinks about the snake repellent and laughs again, wheezing, rolls onto his side and bats Dean’s hand away and it’s just a dick, feels like a dick and seems to be acting like a dick so there it is, his brother’s dick.

“You better be careful what you’re laughing at,” Dean says and Sam snorts, tucks his face in his own shoulder, flooding warm and pleased and grateful, hips swaying in and he lets Dean go to shove his jeans more open and grinds against Dean’s front, slipping up to his belly, fabric mostly, a hot trace of skin, his heart pounding in his ears now and his balls heavy and his stomach clenching; he spits on his palm and takes Dean up again, fast and Dean’s hand locks on his shoulder, his other fumbling down between them trapping Sam’s dick against his body trying to hold on and Sam grunts and fucks in, awkwardness filtering back and the stark reality of it but it feels good, at least, mechanically good and he chases that hard before it goes too, closes his eyes and pumps the dick in his hand and rubs against the body next to him, can’t imagine it’s anyone else but at least Dean gives a shit, he’ll give his brother that: he’ll try until his heart gives out and the least Sam can do is make him come; he’s close, Sam can tell, held breath and his body shuddering like he’s trying to fold up, fingers dug into the meat of Sam’s shoulder, groping up to Sam’s neck and hanging on with his thumb jammed under Sam’s jaw until he grunts and strains and floods Sam’s hand, and Sam jerks him softer a couple more times just to bring him down politely, grabs himself and squeezes his eyes shut and fucks his fist, almost painful, just fighting for the goddamn end of this, face sore in a grimace, working around the head and down firm until his balls draw up and something eases in his back and he shoots, finally, falling and pressing into Dean’s side, rubbing his way through the last wrung-out spurts, hauling in a breath, his throat aching, sparks dying down his nerves. 

He has his teeth in Dean’s shirt. Hunched over him, Dean’s jaw at his temple. Dean is very still, hands hovering empty and careful above Sam’s back.

He lets go. Disentangles his leg where it's planted between Dean's knees and collapses off.

His headache rockets back into his skull so fast it’s like he’s been shot. Dirt taste coating his tongue. His face is sticky. Jizz slipping down his palm. He groans, shakes it off, scrubs against his jeans.

“I’m gonna torch these clothes,” Dean says, strained, after a while. He’s closer than Sam was expecting. “Nothing personal.”

Sam hitches himself some distance and fumbles for the bottle with his cleaner hand, spins the lid off. ”Did you bring any wet wipes?”

“I think there are some old KFC things in the glovebox,” Dean says, supremely unhelpful, and makes a disgusted sound, shifts, doing up his fly. 

Sam rinses his mouth and spits to the side, stomach rolling, acid in his throat, his cheeks burning. The worst comedown of his life. It’s dark, thank God, thank _God_ ; twilight out there and night under here. He doesn’t have to look at Dean yet. Maybe, if he can fix it, for the rest of his life. He wants the motel. He wants to be at the motel, already, a shower hot enough to boil his skin off and the oblivion of sleep. He wants to be in the bunker without any intervening car ride and without knowing what he now knows and without being so curdlingly, skin-crawlingly known and without, somehow, having rubbed off on his _brother_ and he wants Dean to say it's okay and he never, ever, wants to speak about this again.

Dean shuffling around. Something zips up; the duffle. “Whoever’s life we just saved,” he says, hoarse. “I hope that fucker’s grateful.”

“Can we not talk about it?”

“Who’s talking about it? Talk about what?”

“Thank you.” Sam turns onto his front, squints towards the lattice, nearly black, the night sunk completely. The music from the house reasserts itself, the shifting floorboards; the whirring crickets and faint peep of bats and when he'd come back to himself Dean had been trying so delicately not to touch him and that's the worst part of it all, he can already tell, outrunning what that might mean is gonna be one of the tougher tasks of his life but he gets started trying, picks a vague exit direction and starts shuffling himself along, tiny rocks digging into his elbows and something dangling above bumping soft on the crown of his head: wires, only a bundle of wires, he tells himself, not freaky but boring, and normal, and nothing that will haunt him for the remainder of his days.

Sound of the bag being shoved, Dean scrabbling along somewhere down by his feet.

“I’m just gonna say one thing,” Dean whispers, loud, in the dark behind him. Sam freezes, hair on the back of his neck rising. “I thought I taught you better than to hump your ladies like a caveman.”

Sam's head drops on his forearms. His heart sinks; and, sunk, warms. His cheek itches; he rubs it on his shoulder and heaves himself up again. Looks around. “Take me someplace nicer than a crawlspace and maybe I’ll treat you nicer.”

A beat. “Ah, crap,” Dean says and clears his throat. “This is awkward.”

“I was joking.”

“I’m a rambling man, Sammy.”

Sam rolls his eyes, starts up again for the exit. “Don’t flatter yourself."

"I got your flattery all over me," Dean says, and snickers, so amused by himself, and Sam chides _Gross, Dean_ , like he's supposed to, and, facing away from his brother and out towards the their escape, lets his grin show on his face.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback/concrit welcome.
> 
> [Rebloggable tumblr post for those so inclined.](https://nigeltde-fic.tumblr.com/post/190362181966/two-people-at-least-one-orgasm-4957-words-by)


End file.
